──Squeak... clack.
The old floorboards let out a faint, rhythmic groan.
It sounded like someone tossing in their sleep, or perhaps the final, mechanical rattle of a machine at the end of its life.
It wasn't morning, yet I couldn't exactly call it night. In this place, "time" was a concept stripped of meaning.
The sun remained somewhere far above—neither light nor wind reached this depth. Occasionally, a lukewarm breeze smelling of iron brushed my cheek, but I had no way of knowing where it originated.
When I looked up, I saw nothing but ducts, pipes, and the occasional drip of some unidentified liquid.
This was the "bottom" of the Upper District, hundreds of meters below the surface.
An alleyway hemmed in by rusted steel frames and exposed pipes. It was a slum in name only, a place where people, air, and the business of living flowed through the narrow gaps between structures.
I sat in a room tucked away in a corner—a space that felt more like a makeshift workshop than a home.
Rei Haijima. That’s my name.
Apparently, I was well-known enough in Neo Babel that "Repairman" had become synonymous with my name.
Lately, though, it felt less like I was simply fixing broken things and more like I was being dragged into their messes.
...Well, life is full of surprises.
Lowering myself into a steel chair, I shook a can and placed it onto the small heating device in front of me. The liquid inside made a dull splashing sound. On the slightly dented label, a cheerful old man clutching a pipe smiled back at me.
I rubbed my eyes and brushed back my bangs. My hair was starting to get long; the wavy locks felt coarse and untidy to the touch.
I wasn't fond of mirrors, but the grimy glass hanging before me reflected a pair of cynical, droopy eyes staring back with mutual exhaustion.
...I really do need a haircut.
I looked away and leaned into the backrest, crossing my legs as the chair emitted a low, protesting creak.
I brushed a bit of dried mud off the hem of my pants, smoothing the fabric of my slim-fit reinforced denim. They weren't actually that tight, but compared to the muscle-bound freaks who tended to populate my social circle, I was often perceived as "frail."
──Maybe I should try to bulk up a bit.
Just as the heater let out a sharp "ding," I picked up the hot can and stood.
...At that exact moment, a scream tore through the silence outside.
"H-Help—Stop—Gwah...!"
The voice cut off abruptly, replaced by the sickening, wet thud of something tearing through flesh.
Whether it was blood hitting the floor or something else, a faint, damp scent began to seep in through the gaps in the exhaust pipes.
This was a hidden slum within the Subplate—the dark underbelly of the neon-lit Upper District.
It was a forgotten pit inhabited by the destitute, fugitives, corporate outcasts, and those who had traded their names for anonymity. Neither the police nor the administration bothered with this place. Doctors and judges never visited.
Here, "power" was the only law.
It was a dangerous but convenient hub where illegal goods and contraband changed hands in the open street. If you died here, you were stripped clean—from your tech to your meat—until there was nothing left to bury.
Still holding my can, I peered through the small window in the door.
...Just as I suspected.
The man lying on the ground was a stranger to me. One of his arms was a prosthetic, with a small-caliber muzzle protruding from the wrist. A custom job.
But it seemed he’d met his end before he could even get a shot off.
Standing over the mangled corpse was a figure clad in black, holding a large knife dripping with crimson. The figure wore a "commercial-grade" prosthetic body encased in matte rubber. Only the skin around the mouth was visible, suggesting a young woman, though I couldn't be certain what the "inside" actually was.
Above her head floated a Speech Bubble—one that only I could see.
《Target silence confirmed. Reporting upon return.》
The text was emotionless and structured.
Judging by the getup, she was a Cleaner working for a certain "acquaintance" of mine.
She cast a brief glance at the window where I stood, gave a curt nod, and then vanished into the shadows as if melting into the dark.
Looks like someone else was acting out again.
I muttered the thought to myself and stepped away from the window.
I kept my expression neutral, but I felt a heavy sigh settle in my chest. This place was as volatile as ever; trouble was thick in the air.
I just hoped it wouldn't come looking for me. Then again, I always seemed to find myself at the center of the storm. It was a strange talent.
...Maybe I should look into getting an exorcism.
I pulled open the poorly fitted door and stepped outside.
The alley was old and silent, devoid of any other presence. The guy who had just died at my feet had likely been running for his life when he stumbled into this dead end.
Can in hand, I activated my skill.
I reached out and touched the blood-stained, outdated terminal lying by the body.
《Target: X-20 Series Prosthetic Management Terminal》 《Damage Rate: 71%》 《Repair? : Sufficient materials available》
I whispered "OK" in my mind. Instantly, the terminal began to reconstruct itself.
Life being reborn from scrap metal. A voice being pulled back from the graveyard of data.
It turned out to be nothing but a mundane information log. Nothing of value.
I went back inside, set the newly repaired terminal on the shelf by the entrance, and sat back down.
Neo Babel.
It was a city that was rotting and distorted, yet somehow still breathing. Every time it broke, someone fixed it just enough to keep it surviving.
I popped the lid of the can and took a long swig. The synthetic bitterness typical of the brand coated my tongue.
...And so, I would spend another day on the fringes, simply fixing things that were broken.
While occasionally breaking a few things myself, of course.